Camille Kouchner - The Familia Grande

My mother died on February 9, 2017. All alone in a Toulon hospital. Her medical file says she died surrounded by her loved ones, but not one of her children was there.

My mother, a tiny figure in her hospital bed, died without me. And I have to live with that.

Three weeks earlier shed found out she had cancer. Three weeks of tests that culminated in the absurd decision to operate. A basal segmentectomy; the tumor was coming out. Rest assured. Shed written me to say Dont worry, Im not on my own.

My mother slipped away. They stopped her treatment, which was a misnomer, without asking my opinion or waiting for me to come and hold her hand. They stopped her suffering by tearing out her heart. She wasnt given a chance to hear her childrens words, words to soothe or bolster her, words of farewell, words of love. My mother let herself die, far away from me.

Im writing these words a few years later. I say, My mother died, but as I write it, I dont feel her absence. Of course, I have a lump in throat and tears welling, but the wrench is imaginary.

Ive lost my mother a thousand times; I wont lose her this time.

Maybe her eyes.

What about her eyes. Could we let them have her eyes? I pass the question on to my brothers. Exchange of texts. Clearly, everything except her eyes is useless. Her lungs, heart, liverno one would want them. But theyd be happy to take her eyes. Are you okay with that? Well hand over Moms eyes? And then what? Luz is asking if we agree she should be buried in Sanary. What should we say? Thats what she would have wanted, right? No time to think. Answer immediately, to make the questions go away, to make them stop. Yes, yes, fine, if you think thats the right thing, yes, yes, okay.

From up in the mountains where Ive distanced myself, I make the final arrangements for my mothers funeral. My younger sister Luz is at the hospital in Toulon. She explains her plans over the phone: Jeans and that sky-blue sweater with a hood that she liked so much. What do you think? Do you think theyll put panties on her? Id say, No way! My mother never wore panties! Are you crazy! Well check!

Luz and I both know the panties story; it makes rather unusual orphans of us. And for us, her daughters, losing our mother means worrying that all those memories will melt away. It means risking someday forgetting the image of her squatting in the long grass at Sanary with a happy sigh. Her Come on, kids, time to pee in the grass! was her way of saying Time for bed every evening. On the driveway to the Farm, always in the same place, Asses bared, three girls together, what a pleasure! Enjoy those stalks, girls! Were so lucky not to be guys! A common language between my sister and me, an exchange of glances for the future, for a later life with our own daughters, well have to try. To stay sans-culottes, panty-free!

Ive left my children with their father, and Im heading south toward Toulon with my brother Victor.

The high-speed train is all toddlers squealing, cell phones, people having lunch, bustle. Forty-one years old,

the pair of us facing each other, my twin and me, talking only with our eyes: Do you think we can cope? I love you. Im here. What the hell are we doing here? This is the worst day of our lives.

Victor drives us to Sanary. Htel La Farandole, at the end of the coast road, just after the paddling beach, where I was stung by a jellyfish when I was a child. This hotel has always been there in the background. We were always a little awed by it. Itll be good, I thought to myself, well have somewhere to go.

Id called Reception the day before. For how many nights? Lets seeGoing to the hospital to check that it actually is our mother that were burying, picking up her things, sleeping. One night. Burying her and leaving. No point putting down roots. Just one night, please. Words I would rather never have had to say. A lilting Southern accent and a smile from the other end: Just a short stay, then. Will you be here on business? A No would be enough. Otherwise, how could I put it?

We arrive, settle in, and leave again. Mustnt dawdle. Off to Hpital Sainte-Musse, in Toulon. There we meet up with Colin and Luz, my older brother and my little sister.

Not exactly sparky, not entirely bright-eyed, altogether disoriented, but, for once, reunited. Hugs and silences. Fleeting eye contact. No need for words. A heavy sky. Each of us probably sounding out the others reactions, none of us knowing how to deal with the pain. We smile at one another very gently.

Like a slightly decrepit but reformed rock group we drift around the hospital looking for the morgue.

Weve found it. A simple And you are? slaps us in the face.

The words break away from my mouth, my tongue working against my hard palate. Im barely audible. Madame Pisiers children. Were her children. The duty officers tone doesnt change, he looks dead on his feet too: Shes not here. No, not with me. No Madame Pisier here. I dont have a Madame Pisier. Im so sorry. Well, thats quite something. My sister tries another tack, her married name. Found her, found our missing mother! Just needed to switch identities. You can come in. I tried to tidy her up, but it didnt really work Quite.

I was so scared of going into that room. So scared shed be awake, scared shed be disfigured, scared shed refuse to listen to me, scared I wouldnt be able to cry, scared shed forget I was her daughter and wouldnt let me near her.

We took it in turns, one after the other, to go check. What? I dont know. Every one of us went in, cried, and then walked away. I kissed her a lot, a lot, endlessly, her soft, ice-cold skin. And then I asked her forgiveness. At length.

Wheres the elevator, and the oncology department?

Zombies looking for their mothers belongings in the hospital.

This time we dont make any mistakes. Weve come to pick up our legally married mothers belongings. A rock group really going for it!

A young nurse pushes a cart loaded with a huge garbage bag: Here you are. Its the best I could find. Id be grateful if you could check right now that all her things are here.

This duty falls to the eldest. Colin opens the bag. Violent drafts of our mothers perfume. The rockers are totally stoned. The stocktakings not much fun. Lets do it.

Our brother picks out a first item and looks at us, bemused. A remote? Whats this remote for? The enthusiastic Southerner, barely into her twenties, proudly brings an end to this line of questioning: Its hospital policy.

Beaming smile. The remote goes wherever the patient goes. Wheres your mom now? For once my brothers, my sister, and I speak as one, one and the same, same pain: Shes dead! How many times do we need to say it!

Okay, come on, thenher phone, her clothes, her laptop, some booksIts late, lets get out of here, tomorrows a big day!

We have our evening meal at a beachside restaurant. Whats left of us gathered at one table: the eldest, Colin; the twins, Victor and me; and the two adoptees, Luz and Pablo. Five in all. My mothers pride: Five children, two births. Who can say better than that?! A slightly battered rock band.

My cousin Rose is here too. Shell be there for the opening of the family vault tomorrow. Her brother Timothe chose not to come. I understand. Their mother Marie-France, whos buried there, will be open to the four winds. Did we have a choice? The Pisier sisters married first cousins. But still, how stupid to have agreed to leave them so far from their own mother and from Paris! So far from us. In their husbands family vault. What were we thinking?